Sharp
by need not
Summary: You take her hand. Take a cigarette, watch as she deftly lights it for you. "Reed," you say, trying the name out on your tongue. It tastes like smoke, like fire, and you decide you like it.
This is your upbringing.

You learn from an early age no one likes a girl who fights with her fists, so you fight with your words instead. A sharp tongue is better than a sharp sword, your grandfather always says, the only one praising you when you get in fights at school.

Disappointed glances, folded arms, pursed lips; these are the looks of your girlhood, a soft _Tanya we raised you better than this_ when you come home from school with skinned knees and bruised knuckles.

You're a fast learner. Faster runner. If they can't catch you they can't hit you. No one likes a girl with a sharp tongue, no one likes a girl who's quick with her fists.

Your mother sighs. And in that sigh is _No boy is going to want a girl like you, Tanya_.

Fine, then.

Maybe you don't want a boy.

They send you to Croydon High School, a girl's school. Uniforms and hushed whispers in the halls. Your sharp tongue doesn't help you here, now whetted to a fine needle-tip point. You're too brown, too smart, too quick for the girls at this school. They shun you by day two, and you come home again with skinned knees and bruised knuckles.

You learn. You round your vowels and get rid of the East London from your accent and you learn.

You hear your parent's whispers, late at night.

 _She's not doing well—_

 _The boys were fine_

 _They're boys—_

 _Christ, what is she?_

 _What are we doing?_

You block it out. Hone your sword. Cover your ears, don't think about girls or boys or whoever.

But then—

Oh God, then, you meet a girl.

And she is beautiful.

You catch her smoking out behind the lavatory one day, fiery red hair obscuring her face and the smoke rising so she looks like she's on fire.

(Christ, _you're_ on fire. Your face is hot and other parts of you and—)

She catches you staring, stamps out her cigarette. Holds out her hand—white, freckled.

"I'm Angharad," she says, voice a light Welsh brogue and suddenly you understand why she's out here by herself.

You take her hand. Take a cigarette, watch as she deftly lights it for you.

"Reed," you say, trying the name out on your tongue. It tastes like smoke, like fire, and you decide you like it.

"Reed, then," she says, and she smiles, and _God_ , that smile could light you up from the inside.

You think about her later. At night. Hand down your shorts, her name on your lips.

No one ever tells you girls do these things.

You become friends, you and Angharad. Your parents are delighted, delighted when they meet her and her voice is soft and her manners are perfect.

They wouldn't be delighted if they knew what you do when you're alone with her.

They're out one day and she's in your room, and you're kissing and it's fire and heat and your hand is reaching up her uniform skirt and she's gasping your name—

 _Reed—_

And then—

The door opening before you know it and your mother's face in the doorway saying _I think it's best you left now_ and Angharad awkwardly tugging her skirt back down and your face is hot.

That night, they sit you down. Tell you they're pulling you out of Croydon, you can finish your A-levels somewhere else.

They don't mention the girl. But you hear it, still, in their voices—

 _Tanya we raised you better than this._

 _Not Tanya_ , you whisper to yourself that night. _Reed._

You go away for university. You memorize anatomy during the day and study your lover's at night. Men. Always men. You tell yourself you enjoy it and with some of them, you do.

Your tongue is still sharp. And at university you are Reed, always Reed. Tanya is a girl from Croydon who wasn't raised well. Reed is a woman who rides a motorbike and knows a sharp tongue is better than a sharp sword. Her knuckles aren't bruised anymore. Just her pride, just her heart.

You find a husband. He's soft-spoken, quiet, a good match for you, he douses the fires you want to let rage. He works a safe job and you cut up bodies during the day and at night you have sex and it's not so bad, really, it isn't.

And then her. Stella. Tongue as sharp as yours and just as unforgiving. You see yourself in the lines on her face, the quickness of her hands.

You think about her. She calls you Reed, and you think there's something in that glint of her eye when she says it.

When she kisses you in the restaurant, it lights a fire you thought had been extinguished. And you know she's doing it for show but you let yourself kiss her back.

Her hand rests on your knee for the rest of the evening, and you want, you hope—

God, do you hope.

The spark between you is still there when she pays for your drinks and when you follow her to the elevator, her fingertips lightly still touching yours, and you think and you want and—

But then she asks you upstairs. And suddenly it's their faces you see, those echoes in your head—

 _Tanya, we raised you better than this._

You make an excuse. The words slip out before you can think about them— "I'm from Croydon."

And Stella's face falls. And you curse yourself.

But that night at home—your husband's on a business trip, thank _God—_ you slip your hand into your pajama pants and you imagine what would have happened if you'd stayed, Stella gasping your name—

 _Reed._


End file.
